


Big, Blond, and Beautiful

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Friends With Benefits, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Polyamorous Character, Shameless Smut, Size Difference, Size Kink, Subspace, it's lazy doggy style cuz they're lying down, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17123537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Mikkel is tol. Arthur is smol. Arthur finds that hot. Mikkel is inclined to agree.[Polyamorous DenEng.]





	Big, Blond, and Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Not gonna lie, this is complete self-indulgence. I wasn't sure if I was gonna put this up or not, but - fuck it, this is my Christmas present to myself xP

The signs were there from the start.

Some of them were subtle, excusable. Anyone’s eyes would widen in admiration when they saw Mikkel with an arm pump from an hour at the gym, and if someone bumped into him on the street the usual reaction was to step back and look up at him, thoughts clear: _Good thing that didn’t fall on me!_ He didn’t mind that; he liked to be a more-or-less gentle giant. And, as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who liked it.

But he didn’t put it together at first. His partner had a complicated relationship with self-expression, and he tended to make hints or sarcastic remarks that Mikkel interpreted incorrectly. So, when Arthur said things like _Watch your head, you’ll have to stoop_ or _Let me adjust the seat so you can actually fit in my car_ , Mikkel took them as mothering and teasing. And when they were watching television, Mikkel assumed Arthur holding their hands up palm-to-palm—so they could both see how Arthur’s fingertips only reached Mikkel’s last knuckle—was just a little affectionate gesture, nothing more.

It was only when they were invited to his cousin’s wedding, and thus had to be fitted for tuxes, that Mikkel finally realized. While the tailor was stretching the measuring tape around Mikkel, he was watching Arthur in the mirror—who was, in turn, watching with unmistakable hunger in his eyes.

 _No way,_ he thought. To be sure, he tested it: “Am I bigger, since last time?”

He knew he was, from weightlifting with Berwald and Gilbert, but he was still pleased to hear the tailor reply, “Yes, you’re almost up two sizes.”

Sure enough, Arthur’s pupils dilated, just a bit. Mikkel stifled a grin. _No fucking way._ He’d known Arthur through other friends, but they’d hit it off at a New Years party last year—which was to say, they’d fucked in Gilbert’s bathroom and liked it enough to keep meeting over the following months. They weren’t dating— _partners,_ Arthur maintained, _not lovers or boyfriends_ —and they had separate cars, separate apartments, separate lives. Arthur, in fact, was in an open relationship with at least two other people. (Mikkel didn’t want to know any details, which Arthur respected, though he had assured Mikkel that the others knew nothing about him, either.) Mikkel was between boyfriends currently, enjoying the carefree lack of consequence Arthur offered _before_ _you outgrow your toys_ , as Gilbert put it. Arthur was a fan of toys. And restraints. And, as Mikkel discovered when he fucked him against the sink, watching himself. And several other assorted kinks, some of which Mikkel wanted nothing to do with. Arthur had just shrugged, indifferent, when they discussed their Will/Won’t lists. _If one person gave me everything I wanted, I wouldn’t be poly._ _Don’t worry about it._

And Mikkel didn’t worry about it. Arthur was good for conversation (he thought the accent was hot, sue him), good to take to social functions (he was excellent at boring small talk), and probably the best lay he’d ever had. But Mikkel wasn’t in love with him. They were friends with benefits, more than anything. He’d cut things off, whenever he stumbled across Mr. Right.

But for now . . . this discovery was too good to ignore.

That night, after the shopping trip for tuxes, Mikkel walked into the bathroom while Arthur was bent over, rinsing toothpaste out of his mouth. Mikkel let his hands find Arthur’s waist, started slowly grinding their hips together. Arthur’s back arched, pressing his ass into Mikkel’s groin as he patted his face dry with a towel. He started to turn around, so they could frot, but Mikkel pinned him against the sink. Arthur tipped his head to one side, offering a neck to suck on, but Mikkel ignored it, just staring at Arthur in the mirror. Arthur looked back, and stood straight again, inquiring.

Mikkel rested his chin on top of Arthur’s head. “You’re so small.”

Arthur’s face immediately colored with lust.

Mikkel didn’t hide his grin now. “You like that, don’t you? You like being so small and helpless. Compared to me.”

A slight smirk was all the response Arthur gave—aside from grinding back into Mikkel a little. So it was a game of silence he was playing.

Mikkel considered demanding an answer, incorporating some discipline into this, but on second thought decided against it. It was often hard to predict how two kinks would interact. Arthur sometimes bought lingerie for the sole purpose of letting Mikkel rip it off—but the rule did not apply to all crossdressing, because he’d once worn a cocktail dress and left Mikkel explicit written instructions. He was to pick Arthur up, carry him to bed, and fuck him without disrobing either of them. (Mikkel often wondered if that was roleplay or genuine self-confirmation for Arthur, because female outerwear had yet to make a reappearance.) As much as Arthur enjoyed taking orders—and Mikkel enjoyed giving them—talking too much could draw him out of subspace, and Mikkel suspected that was the case here.

That was probably why they’d lasted as long as they had. Even when they weren’t compatible in other elements, they knew how to make each other come.

Mikkel wrapped his arms around Arthur so his upper body framed him in the mirror, flexing his biceps against Arthur’s shoulders. “You’re such a little twink,” he said with a smile. Not disparagement. Appreciation. “Look how small you are.” He squeezed, just enough to redden Arthur’s cheeks. “I have to be careful not to crush you, don’t I?”

Arthur’s eyes were dark, dark with arousal, and his voice was a low rasp. “Yes, Daddy.”

A size kink/daddy kink combo for two. Mikkel had definitely eaten worse.

“I might as well carry you,” he remarked. “You’ll just get stepped on.”

Bridal style was too romantic, so he tossed Arthur over one shoulder and dropped him on the bed. It was rare that Arthur didn’t suck him off at least as a warm-up, and tonight he was ravenous. Arthur tore down Mikkel’s boxers and set to work—a sloppy, wet blowjob full of breathless moans that vibrated through Mikkel’s cock. Mikkel didn’t pull Arthur’s hair (something Arthur liked to do to him) but held his hand on top of Arthur’s head. “Do you think I could crush your skull, if I tried hard enough?” he wondered aloud, then instantly regretted it for how violent it sounded. This wasn’t serial killer kink, for God’s sake.

Arthur didn’t seem to care, though, just continued sucking and massaging Mikkel’s balls. Neither of them were into CBT, but cupping and thumbing were good. Mikkel knew something Arthur always wanted when Mikkel was the one with authority. He pulled out of Arthur’s mouth, grasped his shaft at the base, and pressed it against the side of Arthur’s face. Here was more size kink, he realized, if a more localized variety. Arthur liked feeling the hardness against his cheekbone and temple, liked nuzzling into it, tracing it with the tip of his tongue, mouthing at the frenulum until Mikkel couldn’t take it anymore and shoved his cock back between Arthur’s lips.

Now, as he met the head bobbing with controlled thrusts, he panted, “I’m surprised your mouth is big enough. I think you might choke.”

Arthur had choked before—on purpose and otherwise—but he didn’t tonight. Transitions were usually awkward, potentially enough to interrupt subspace, so Mikkel pushed Arthur onto his belly and stripped him of his sleep clothes quickly. He straddled him on the mattress, weight on his hands on either side of Arthur’s head. Normally he kept most of his bodyweight off of Arthur, but now he pinned Arthur with all of him. Arthur let out a tiny squeak, but that wasn’t a safeword or warning, so Mikkel didn’t let up.

“You like that?” His whisper warmed pale skin as he started pressing kisses to the nape of Arthur’s neck, a wonderfully sensitive spot. “Am I heavy, baby?”

Arthur wasn’t to the fucked-silly point of incoherent moans, but he still only gave a rather needy _mm-hmm_ as he tried in vain to move his hips against Mikkel’s. The side of his face was pressed into the bed and the profile of it—jagged bangs, snub nose, swollen lips, sweet chin—was so lovely Mikkel had to lean down and kiss his freckled cheek.

“Fuck, you’re a cute little thing,” he said, letting the words rumble through his chest into Arthur’s back. “Sometimes you don’t even look real. Like you’re just my little toy.”

He had to admit, the dirty talk was fun. In the very beginning he felt sheepish saying things like that—he preferred to let actions speak louder than words, especially in the bedroom—but soon the power became a rush. The fact that he can say a handful of words and feel them shiver their way down Arthur’s spine and probably have him throbbing against the mattress? Oh yeah, he could get into that.

“You want Daddy to fuck his toy?” he asked, thrusting between Arthur’s thighs. They’d done intercrural and intergluteal, but both just made Mikkel long for genuine penetration. Still, pushing his cockhead into Arthur’s perineum until a low, short keen was driven out of him, and the feeling of that silky smooth skin slick with precum was well worth the delay.

He grabbed the nearest bottle of lube (with Arthur, it was paramount to have multiple sources) and set about stretching. He had to take his weight off Arthur for this, but the deepness of the breath Arthur let in when Mikkel lifted off told him that was probably a good thing. Compression and choking always scared him; most things that could do permanent damage fell on his Won’t list.

“Okay, baby?” Mikkel asked, and at Arthur’s nod pushed in another finger. Their partnership had definitely been an eye-opening experience, that’s for sure. He’d learned more about himself in the past few months than he had in the last ten years. And he’d learned Arthur, physically—every freckle and scar—and emotionally. Granted, half of their arguments were started by things Mikkel couldn’t predict and he knew next to nothing about Arthur’s past, but he knew his boundaries. He knew how much Arthur could take before he crumbled, and he knew how much aftercare he needed was not always what Arthur himself _thought_ he needed. He could call him _baby_ and _darling_ and _sweetheart_ when he was in subspace, but Arthur would rather be called _bastard_ or some extension of _fuck_ in general conversation. _Hand me the remote, would you, fuckface?_ Mikkel liked it, God help him. On one level, it was just funny. On the other, it was _them_ —they didn’t use fluffy pet names, they swore. They didn’t exchange a peck upon greeting and parting, they bit lips and pinched hips. It was sort of like fucking a college roommate. But you didn’t really get married to those.

Mikkel pulled his fingers out of Arthur and instead used them to roll a condom over his erection and pump the lost life back into it as he got back into position on top of Arthur. Arthur usually didn’t mind the mess—and in fact had a cum-related kink that Mikkel couldn’t believe existed outside of porn—but that tended to be something he decided after the deed was done, and Mikkel didn’t want to hear any bitching tonight. He lined himself up and nipped at the back of Arthur’s shoulder blades. “You want it?”

“Fuck me,” Arthur said, with surprising clarity. His voice had that high lilt to it, though, that meant he was beyond turned on. Sometimes he sounded like a porn actress when he screamed—like the few Mikkel had seen, anyway—with those cries that got higher and higher until he came with one last earth-shattering shriek. Half the time Mikkel covered his mouth or shoved his fingers inside so Arthur could suck on them, to muffle the racket.

 _Threesomes?_ Mikkel had asked, and was shocked to hear Arthur’s resolute _Won’t._ Endless probing had gotten him nowhere. Mikkel just assumed Arthur was alright with dividing his time among different partners, but he didn’t like sharing in-the-moment. Mikkel didn’t want the distraction, anyway.

He pushed in to the hilt, because—Arthur arched dramatically and let out a breathless string of curses—that’s what they liked. He set the pace fast and firm from the start, and Arthur pushed into him as much as he could from his position, crushed flat into the bed. A few springs squeaked, no matter how many times they flipped the mattress. Mikkel liked the creaks and thumps of the bed. The beat of it made him sound like a machine, tirelessly pistoning, or an animal with only one purpose, the carnal rhythm. Arthur liked those dehumanizing fantasies, but Mikkel did, too. Separation from the act was just as hot as being here, inside, hot and wet and tight—and God knew that was a miracle, after the things they’d done. No telling what he got up to with the others. The thought of Arthur as a well-fucked hole had him thrusting harder, and then: _He’s mine._ There it was, the claiming. He growled a little with each lunge into Arthur, squeezing pale flesh between his teeth. Arthur had others, but Mikkel was bigger and stronger. If he wanted to, he could keep Arthur forever, and nobody could do anything about it.

Suddenly Arthur’s head jerked up and his fingers grasped fistfuls of blanket. Mikkel tried his best to replicate the trajectory, and Arthur started to come apart beneath him, fraying and moaning louder with each slam into his prostate.

Mikkel grinned against his skin. “Yeah, you like that? You gonna come for Daddy?”

“Ah—hah—uh- _huh_!” Arthur could hardly speak between his pleasure-born senselessness and the repetitive jolts to his body. Mikkel didn’t think the friction against the sheets and the prostate stimulation would be enough, but he had witnessed Arthur edge himself to a hands-free release, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when Arthur’s body convulsed and Mikkel felt the rippling clench of internal muscle. He rocked in with as much strength as he dared, twice, thrice—and he hitched his hips one final time as his orgasm tore through him.

Arthur was never in a rush about pulling out—not a trait shared by Mikkel’s past boyfriends—so Mikkel surrendered to his body and went limp. A soft grunt from Arthur at the weight, but it bled into a throaty groan when the warmth enveloped him.

Mikkel nuzzled Arthur’s neck. “What a good little toy. I’m glad I didn’t break you.”

Arthur shifted slightly—all he could manage, under Mikkel—and closed his eyes, exhaling a content sigh. There was his happy place, evidently, or at least one of them: pinned under the deadweight of a six-foot man with a softening cock up his ass.

 _Could be better,_ Mikkel thought, letting his eyelids droop. If this was romantic _and_ sexual, then he’d have what he wanted. Maybe that was selfish or naive, thinking he’d find the perfect someone. Oh well. You had to have goals in life. _Could be a lot worse, too,_ he thought, for Arthur’s sake, and his partner hummed quietly as if in agreement.

Mikkel brushed his lips over a darkening hickey and closed his eyes.

 

 

**ONE YEAR LATER**

Bjorn wasn’t much of a partier, but Mikkel played the _It’s Tradition_  card and that won the day. So they were in Gilbert’s living room, watching everyone else get trashed and dance horribly to dubstep remixes of holiday songs. Their host was currently—loudly—trying to convince people to do body shots in the kitchen. Bjorn shook his head, but smiled when Mikkel offered to get him a new drink. No alcohol, of course; Bjorn was driving them home. Mikkel kissed his temple before he walked away, even though he knew his boyfriend hated PDA. Mikkel had never been a sentimental drunk until he met Bjorn. Then again, sometimes he felt like he’d never been a whole person, until he met Bjorn.  No, not whole—half, and searching, always searching.

He really wasn’t _that_ drunk. But he also couldn’t explain how he’d gotten to the second floor of the house.

Abruptly, light blinded him; he blinked until he realized a door had just opened. A rather short man stood in the bathroom doorway with a much taller man close behind him.

“Arthur?” Mikkel asked. He hadn’t seen him for months. Mikkel had moved farther away for a new job, and Arthur was one of the things he hadn’t taken with him. Just as well, as it turned out, because he met Bjorn the first day in his new apartment building. But still: “Wow. It’s good to see you.”

“You too,” Arthur said, amused. He smoothed down his rather rumpled shirt. “Mikkel, I’m sure you know Lars.”

Mikkel squinted, but he couldn’t tell if he or Lars was drunker. “So you’re still—”

“Aiming high.” Arthur took Lars’s hand when the taller man started veering too far to one side. “I think I should get this poor dear home, before he falls on me.”

Mikkel grinned. _Guess some things never change._ “Don’t have too much fun.”

“Not a danger with this one,” Arthur assured him, and wrapped his free arm around Lars to herd him downstairs.

No sooner had they vanished than Bjorn stepped into sight. “There you are,” he said with relief, walking to Mikkel. “I thought I’d lost you. Did you know those two?”

Mikkel nodded. “That was Arthur.”

Bjorn’s eyes rounded. “That—? . . . Interesting.” He glanced back at the stairs, then looked up at Mikkel with that gorgeous azure gaze. “Are you alright?”

Mikkel smiled. He was more than alright. He didn’t regret Arthur, but he wasn’t even close to sad about it, either. He was starting a new year with Bjorn in his arms. “I’m great,” he replied, holding him closer. “Don’t worry, kære. It’s no big deal.”

 

_The End._


End file.
